


The Regular Nonsense

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Character Studies (Dragon Age) [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Mischief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aveline Vallen: the hero of Kirkwall we all need.  General mischief with the Kirkwall crew from Aveline's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Regular Nonsense

It’s a good day for a shit storm.

It’s just something about the air, or maybe the way the people in the city hurry this way and that, going about their business, many of them with shifty eyes and leery faces.  Aveline takes one look at the market in Lowtown and swears.  Yes, it’s going to be one of those days.

She’s quick, concise, with her orders.  Guardsmen down to the docks, searching for smugglers bringing in new filth to layer on the city’s old.  Maker, as if it didn’t have enough of it!  She sends them in pairs to Darktown, only her most experienced.  That’s a sure place for a new recruit to get knifed in the kidney, and she hasn’t got any spare kidneys around.  Patrols in Hightown, as well; it might attract a better class of thieves, but thieves and worse are busy in the Hightown squares.  

She makes the rounds herself, too, making sure that nothing goes unmissed.  She shoulders her shield and touches the mace at her side, ready to kick the arse of anything that tries to wiggle past.

 

* * *

 

She catches up Merrill in a Lowtown alley, blithely observing a spindly plant growing out of a barrel.  “Oh Aveline!” she says brightly.  “Would you believe it, elfroot’s growing here.  In Kirkwall, of all places!”

“That’s lovely, Merrill,” says Aveline.  “But would you happen to know anything about those bodies there?”

Merrill sniffs, looking at the crumpled corpses against the wall.  “Oh, them.  They were trying to steal from the children begging.  They thought I might be an easy target.”  She winces, looking down at her ripped robes.  A spectacular bruise blooms on her arm.  “At least the children got away!  I gave them some biscuits I got from Alina’s stall and sent them back to the alienage.  They’ll be safer there.”  She plucks some of the elfroot from the barrel and claps it against her arm in a hasty poultice, smiling.  “That’s better.”

“Do be _careful_ , Merrill,” says Aveline heavily.

 

* * *

 

“How could I possibly smuggle anything?” Isabela asks cheerfully.  “I don’t even have a ship.  Who ever heard of a smuggler without a ship?  Nobody, that’s who.”

“Plenty of people manage to smuggle into Kirkwall without a boat,” says Aveline, raising her eyebrows.  “Say, for example, using a cart and a load of suspicious crates.”  She kicks the cart’s wheel with her boot.

Isabela laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder and baring even more cleavage than usual.  “Oh, _that_.  Just some stuff I’m holding onto for a friend.”

“And you think I’m an idiot, do you?”

“Well if I did, do you think I’d tell you?  I’d rather not have your sword up my arse, thanks,” says Isabela, winking.

“What’s all this?  A couple of ladies having a friendly chat?” Varric asks, poking his head out from behind the cart.  “Ahh, Aveline, just the Guard-Captain I was hoping to find!  You see, I’ve been having a little trouble with this merchandise here… the boys lost the proper papers somewhere in Starkhaven.”  He rummages in his coat and pulls out a sheath of tidy parchment.  She looks through it skeptically, but it’s all in order.  She grimaces at the list.

“You’re bringing in… more of your books.  Maker’s balls, Varric,” Aveline sighs.  “I”m not in this one, am I?”

“Er…”

* * *

 

The girl weeps against Aveline’s side, clutching her little brother and his broken arm.  “Where are you taking us?” the girl cries.  “We didn’t do anything wrong!”  The dimness of Darktown hurts Aveline’s eyes even more at night, but she simply hauls the girl by the arm until they reach a door with a lit lantern.

“Anders,” she calls.  The door grates open, and Anders stands there, shushing the crying girl.  How he’s got the patience for it, she’s no idea.  “Go on,” Aveline says to the girl, nodding at Anders.  He smiles a little, and nods back.

 

* * *

 

She spies Fenris leaving at the edge of town, heading for the Wounded Coast, dangerous sword strapped to his back.  “Going out for a midnight stroll?” she asks casually.

“Time for my evening constitutional,” he says in a gruff voice.  “I hear there is… good hunting to be had.”

“Plenty of things to swing a sword at, in the night,” Aveline agrees.  “Keep up the good work, then.”

 

* * *

 

She runs into Hawke at the Hanged Man, finds her leading a bawdy chorus of a famed Fereldan drinking song.  Hawke insists, delighted, that Aveline join her in a drink.  “But not _in_ the drink, right, it’d be very uncomfortable, two of us squeezing into a pint mug.  I’m sure somebody’d pay to see it, but Maker, it just wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Aveline would ask for patience, but she’s not particularly interested in having it, anyway, so she stumps down to the table next to Hawke and drains the pint.  Hawke cheers.  Aveline belches, and gets back to it.

 

* * *

 

At home Aveline strips off weapons, armor, clothing, and collapses on the bed in her smallclothes.  Donnic’s already asleep, and she yawns, wriggling next to him.  “Oi.  You.  I’m home.”

“Love of my life,” he mumbles sleepily.  “Good day?  Nothing much on my shift.”

“Just the regular nonsense,” she says, sliding an arm over him.  “Funny, I thought it was going to be rather a shit of a day, but it wasn’t bad, really.”

He’s quiet, and she might have thought he was falling back asleep, except he’s oddly tense.  She realizes.  “Donnic, you didn’t.”

“I did.  I’m sorry!” he mutters, rolling over to kiss her apologetically.  “It’s just you know you’re a sore loser…”

“Going behind my back to play cards with Varric and Anders,” she says, shaking her head.  “Of all the --”

“And Fenris,” Donnic supplies helpfully.

“You rat,” she growls.

“Sore loser.”

“Beastly excuse for a man.”

“Harridan of a woman.”

“Are you going to kiss me, or aren’t you, Donnic Hendryr?”

“Right.  Yes, _ma’am_.”

Perhaps she’s been wrong about it being a shit of a day.  It’s all right.  This bit’s quite nice, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> A fun suggestion from tumblr user zevodactyl :)


End file.
